Amazing, What Fire Can Do
by learningtowrite1996
Summary: One-shot. Based off the line of Sherlock in 'A Scandal in Belgravia'. "Amazing how fire exposes our priorities." How does this apply to John and Sherlock when one of their cases is, shall we say, lit on fire? Random story. Please read and review.


**Just thought this up :) Inspired by the scene in 'A Scandal in Belgravia' where Sherlock is trying to find Irene's camera phone. Enjoy :)**

_ "In light of the fact of us not being able to locate the pictures, we must remember that fire is the main exposure of priorities."_

_ Sherlock and John had just signaled a cab, and were on their way to confront Irene Adler. John quickened his pace to keep up with Sherlock as he raced for the car. _

_ "I don't understand." said John. Sherlock sighed. _

_ "Think, John. What is something you truly love?"_

_ John thought. No – he couldn't say what first came to his mind. How about – "God?" he answered uncertainly._

_ "Really? God?"_

_ "Yes, I truly love God, Sherlock."_

_ "Well, that example wont work. Let's say your sister, although the two of you have disagreements. You still love her, correct?"_

_ "Of course."_

_ "So you and your sister are spending a holiday together. The soup, or something catches on fire – "_

_ "The soup?" remarked John, laughing. "What kind of soup catches on fire? And who eats soup for Christmas dinner?"_

_ "Who said the holiday was Christmas?" Sherlock retorted. "It could be Easter, or Thanksgiving. Anyways, that isn't the point. You and Harry are in the kitchen and your meal catches on fire. What would be the first thing you look for as the kitchen sets ablaze?"_

_ John thought for a moment. "I'd look to Harry. To see where she was, and if she was okay."_

_ "Exactly," said Sherlock, smiling a little. "Fire exposes what we care for most. Remember that, John."_

OoOoOo

"Maybe we shouldn't go in there, Sherlock – "

"Why not?"

"Well, it looks old – and abandoned – and –"

"Oh, come now John. Don't tell me that you're afraid."

"I'm not afraid!"

"Well then hush up and follow me. We'll be finished as soon as we find our evidence."

"Evidence being – ?"

Sherlock strained himself from rolling his eyes.

"Our _case_, John!"

"I know that! What evidence are we looking for in this _case_?"

Sherlock started towards the house and John followed. While walking, Sherlock explained.

"Little girl killed randomly in broad daylight. She was found dead exactly one mile from this house, with her house right in between."

They had entered the old, and dusty house. The door made a creaking sound when opened.

"Cause of death; multiple stab wounds from back to neck – "

"I know all of this, Sherlock," said John, shuddering due to the drafty room and the thought of the dead little girl. "I was there, remember? I examined the body."

"Just refreshing your memory."

"Well, I'd rather not hear about her hideous death again. It was terrible enough the first time."

"Sorry. Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah. But it's all right. Go on, now. What are we looking for in this old place?"

Sherlock stopped at the staircase and breathed deeply. His eyes scanned the entire front room, and up the stairs. He squinted ever so slightly.

"They think the killer was someone in the neighborhood, or even, her father. He was the one to find her first, and alert to police. They think he buried the murder weapon somewhere. But he didn't do it. I know he didn't."

John didn't bother questioning how Sherlock knew. He just kept listening. They began going up the stairs, ever so quietly.

"No one ever thought to search this house. The little girl ran past it every single day after school. But no one ever gave it any thought. It's been abandoned for ages, they said."

Sherlock was whispering now.

"I don't think the murder was done by someone who knew the child directly. No, it was done by someone who saw her come home every single day. Someone who practically doesn't even exist, because there are no records of him. Some homeless person, that has been living in this old house."

"Sherlock!" John whispered fiercely, grabbing his arm. Sherlock stopped on the stairs and looked down at him. "It that why we're here?"

"Er – yes?"

"We've come to an abandoned house, in the dead of night because a killer could potentially be inside?"

"Yes."

"_Sherlock!_"

"What, John?" demanded Sherlock, turning on the stairs to face John. "Why are you so afraid?"

"I'm – I'm not, but – "

"Yes you are. I can see it in your face."

"Well, now come off it, Sherlock! No one wants to be in a dark creepy house with a murderer!"

"The murderer may not even be in here. I may be wrong."

"You're never wrong."

Sherlock's mouth curved into a slight smile.

"Do you even have a gun?" asked John.

"No.

"Sherlock..."

"But you do."

"I do?"

"Yes, you always take a gun with you when we leave on our cases. You do it so often, that I think you forget sometimes."

"Oh," said John, feeling inside his coat. Sure enough, his gun was there. "Yes – I suppose I do."

"Then let us proceed," said Sherlock, turning back up the stairs. "And be not afraid, nor be dismayed – "

"Dear God. Are you honestly quoting the bible?" laughed John quietly.

"It hurts that your words hold so much amusement."

"You've never even read the bible!"

"I have so."

"You haven't either! You just steal mine from the desk, and memorize the verses that I've highlighted."

Sherlock laughed. "Wonderful deduction, John."

"Not really, I'm just not an idiot."

"Same thing, really."

"What is that supposed to – ?"

"Hush." said Sherlock suddenly, stopping John from reaching the top of the stairs. "Do you see that?"

"See what?"

"Talk very quietly, John. Right there, on the floor."

"I see some broken wood, and a lot of dust."

"Exactly. Do you see how the wood is broken? Not from it falling from one of the beams on the ceiling, but from something stepping on it. Or – someone."

John gulped. Down the upstairs hallway, a door slammed.

"Have your gun ready, please, John." instructed Sherlock. There was no need. John already had his hand in his coat long before.

Every breath seemed too loud, and every footstep sounded deafening. John and Sherlock peered around the corner of the upstairs for any sign of movement.

"Shall we head for the direction of the slamming door?" suggested Sherlock.

Just then, a door down the hallway burst open. Out of it came a man holding a box of matches, and a can full of gasoline. John pulled out it gun, and Sherlock stepped into the hallway.

"What're you two doing here?" asked the man in a crackly voice. His coat was shabby and filthy. His black hair was matted all over his face.

"Investigating," stated Sherlock smoothly. "A little girl was killed around a mile from this house about five days ago. It was in the middle of the afternoon. She walked past this house every single day on her way home from school."

The man's face became a twisted smile. John's stomach twisted in fear and fury.

"How dare you," John whispered coldly. "Who do you think you are? How dare you kill someone's child, who has never done anything to you? What did you do; watch her every day as she skipped home from school? What did you get out of killing her?" John was yelling by the last question. The man set his gaze on John's gun, and then his face. He threw the can of gasoline straight at the doctor. John stepped back as it splashed down his trousers, and the floor. When he looked back up at the man, the sound of several matches being lit met his ears. When the little flames were produced, Sherlock's head whipped around instantly to John, and John's to Sherlock.

And then the matches were dropped.

The effect was instant. The house itself was extremely flammable due to its dryness. But the gasoline had spread all over the floor. Once the flames reached it, Sherlock was so consumed by the current issue, that the man escaped.

"Sherlock, he's leaving!" John called. He was trapped between the flames and a wall. Sherlock was not.

"Come on John. Quick! You'll catch on fire."

"That way Sherlock! He's in that room!"

"I won't get to him in time. The fire will have spread, and the floor will cave in."

Sherlock stood directly by the stairs and pulled John by the arm. The fire caught John on the ankle, which was saturated with gasoline.

"God dammit – " said John quietly.

"No!"

"Sherlock!"

"Shut up, John! Come on!"

"Sherlock! Oh my god!" John was on fire. It spread from his ankle to his knee in seconds. Sherlock dragged John down the stairs. Once the flames burnt away the trousers, John began to scream.

"Hold on, John." begged Sherlock. They had reached the door, and Sherlock pulled John out into the freezing air, and frozen grass, where the flames couldn't spread. He forced John to lay down and stripped off his coat. The thick material was placed over John's leg, extinguishing the fire. His breaths came in short gasps. Sherlock pulled out his phone.

"Lestrade?" he said a little shakily. "Ambulance, please?"

Sherlock said some other things on the phone, but John couldn't hear. He laid his head on the grass and tried to focus on his white breath rather than the aching in his leg.

"Don't go to sleep, John."

"I'm not."

"Good. Don't."

"I just said I'm not Sherlock – " John shut his eyes.

"John!"

"What?" he asked, opening them again. "The house is so bright. I had to shut them."

Sherlock turned to look at the house, which was heavy with flames. Not completely engulfed, but would be there soon enough.

"Then turn your head away. It's too cold to sleep here."

John looked up at the stars. His head spun in delirious pain.

"I guess we're friends then, Sherlock." said John.

"Pardon?" asked Sherlock a little irritably.

"You said fire exposes priorities. And when that man lit the match, we both looked at each other right away. I thought we weren't friends, but I guess we are now."

Sherlock laughed quietly. Sirens could be heard in the distance. "Glad to know that you actually listen when I speak, John."

John kept looking up at the sky, trying to ignore the stabbing agony and Sherlock put his hand over his mouth, right as the ambulance could be spotted.

**Please review! :)**


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